That Don't Sound Like You
by KindaCrazy02
Summary: Your pretty brown hair, you always loved it. Guess he didn't like it so you just cut it, and that don't sound like you.


**WARNING: ****This story WILL deal with domestic violence. There will be no graphic scenes showing domestic violence, but it will be mentioned. Please DO NOT read this if you feel it will upset you or trigger you.**

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_**That Don't Sound Like You**_

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"Casey?" I ask, my mind reeling and still slightly fuzzy from sleep, my cell phone pressed to my ear almost too hard.

When I saw that name flashing on the front of my screen, I didn't know what to think.

How long has it been? Three years? Four? More? I really can't quite remember the last time I saw her.

"Yeah, it's me," she says quietly, her voice cracking.

She doesn't sound like her. She doesn't sound like the Casey McDonald I remember.

I sit up in my bed, running my fingers through my hair, unsure if this is real life or not.

It occurs to me that I should try to be quiet when I glance up at the clock on the wall, which reads 12:45 a.m.

I look to my right and see the sleeping form of my girlfriend, Sabrina. It wouldn't be fair of me to wake her, so I decide to get up, heading downstairs into the kitchen of the townhouse she and I share.

"What's going on Casey?" I wonder, still not quite understanding why she'd be calling me at 2:45 in the morning New York time.

It's then that I hear a quiet sniffle on the other end of the line.

_Why is she crying?_

"I just… I didn't know who else to call," Casey stammers, sniffling again.

I shake my head, as if trying to process what's going on.

Casey and I haven't seen each other since she decided to go to New York to pursue dancing, and it's been almost that long since we've even spoken, but something upset her and she decided to call _me_?

"What's wrong?"

Casey sniffles again, exhaling heavily.

"I… um… I need you to come to New York," Casey states, her voice lowering to almost a whisper.

I blink a few times, scrunching my eyebrows together.

Did I hear her correctly? I live—quite literally—across the country from her. It's not like I'm five minutes down the road.

"Come to New York? Why?"

Casey lets out a breath again, and I can almost hear the shakiness of it, even over the phone.

"Please, Derek," she whispers, her voice pleading.

I sigh. Despite my obvious hesitance, from the moment she asked, I knew I'd be on the next flight out either way. Casey wouldn't ask me to come to her if it wasn't extremely important.

I nod, not that she can see it, already thinking about where Sabrina stashed my suitcase from the last trip we went on.

"Email me your address. I'll be on the next flight I can get."

* * *

"So, where are you going?" Sabrina asks, her voice harsh as she crosses her arms over her chest.

I sigh.

"New York," I reply, shoving clothes into my suitcase haphazardly.

"Uh-huh," Sabrina rolls her eyes. "And why are you going to New York at… three o'clock in the morning?"

It occurs to me that it's January, and it's bound to be a lot colder in New York than in California, so I also pack a couple of heavy sweatshirts before zipping up my suitcase.

"I told you, I just have to take care of something."

Sabrina sighs heavily, looking up at the ceiling before back at me.

"Who's Casey?" Sabrina's voice is strained, and I can tell she's hurting.

So I guess it's worth mentioning that Sabrina has never met Casey. The last time Sabrina and I went home to visit my family in London, Casey was in New York doing a show. Casey is the only one of the McDonald-Ventuti clan that Sabrina hasn't met, and I don't talk about her either.

"She's Nora's oldest daughter," I answer, looking around our bedroom for anything I might've forgotten to pack.

Sabrina scrunches her eyebrows together as she sits down on the edge of our bed.

"The dancer?" Sabrina asks, arching her eyebrow high.

Sabrina knows very little about Casey. She knows she's a Broadway dancer, and that's about it.

I nod, throwing my leather jacket on.

"Well, you could've said you were going to see your sister," Sabrina hisses.  
I guess I can understand why Sabrina's mad. I'm rushing out of our house in the middle of the night without really telling her what's going on. But to be entirely fair, _I _don't really know what's going on either.

That, and I guess Sabrina heard me say Casey's name when I answered the phone, and assumed the worst. Although, I'd like to think I've built myself a better reputation with Sabrina than I used to have in years past.

"Step-sister," I correct, almost unconsciously.

"Same difference," Sabrina responds.

I can't help but laugh at that.

"No, not really. Marti and Lizzie are my sisters. Casey is just a girl I went to high school with."

* * *

As soon as my flight lands and I'm able to leave the airport, I hail a taxi, telling the driver where I need to go.

Casey told me to stop and check into whatever hotel I plan on staying in, then to come see her.

I managed to book a last-minute hotel room a few blocks from the address Casey sent me, so I quickly check in and send my bag upstairs before starting the walk to Casey's apartment.

Casey still hasn't told my why she needed me to come to New York. She said she needed my help, but didn't say with what.

I want to think that she's okay, but she called me in the middle of the night, crying.

As much as I don't want to, I know in my gut that something's not right.

My mind is absolutely reeling by the time I make it to the lobby of Casey's apartment building. It hits me that I have absolutely no idea what I'm about to walk in to, but I proceed ahead anyway.

One thing that strikes me as a little odd is the doorman— Well. Not him specifically, just the fact that there _is _a doorman.

Casey said her apartment is on the eighth floor, so I take the elevator up, bracing myself for the first time I'm going to see Casey in several years.

I find her apartment and knock hard on the door, shoving my hands into my pockets after.

After a minute, I hear what has to be three or four different locks unlocking before the door opens.

And I swear, my heart almost stops when I see her.

"Casey…," I trail off.

"Did anyone see you come up here?" she asks, grabbing me by the front of my shirt and yanking me through her front door, slamming it shut behind me and quickly refastening all of the locks.

"I-I don't think so," I answer. "Casey, what happened to you?"

Casey turns back to me, scrubbing her hands down the front of her jeans nervously.

Well, I guess now I know why Casey asked me to come here.

Casey's right eye is rimmed with black-and-blue bruises and it's almost swollen shut. She also has a butterfly bandage over the bridge of her nose and a deep split down the right side of her bottom lip.

"We need to get out of here. I'll explain everything, but right now, I just need you to get me out of here."

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Hey guys. This idea came to me when I was listening to the song _That Don't Sound Like You_ by Lee Brice, so credit where credit is due there. I wrote it all in about a day, so please excuse any mistakes. Let me know if you're interested in seeing more.

**This story WILL deal with domestic violence. There will be no graphic scenes showing domestic violence, but it will be mentioned. Please DO NOT read this if you feel it will upset you or trigger you.**


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